


Fragments

by Swiftlet (SphinxTheRiddle)



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance, Snippet, baurus has some feels, character death (mentioned), final battle aftermath, martin is dead and everything hurts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 17:43:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6088684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SphinxTheRiddle/pseuds/Swiftlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the stillness, he remembers the moment when the monolith cracks.</p>
<p>There's no coming back from this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragments

**Author's Note:**

> Just beat the game again and had too many feels. Atia's story is one I've been interested in telling, however, so I hope some of you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing~

The women are the strong ones.

The thought occurs to Baurus as he sinks to his knees, his sword slipping through his blood-slicked fingers. He cannot breathe as the weight of the world comes crashing down upon him – upon the whole of the city – in shattered ruby fragments. He knows the sudden drop in adrenaline makes the time stretch, knows the dying battle-lust is what truly numbs all sensation, but it seems to him that Nirn itself must feel the pressing of grief upon its body. The sky pours out its sorrow above the war-marred region, the earth bleeding loamy red tears in the abrupt silence. The last dragon is dead.

But she does not weep.

Amidst the ravages of war stands Atia Vitalis, her armor a dulled, bloody red in the lowlight of a grey sky. Baurus has always thought her mighty, but in this moment of fragments, he believes he glimpses the legendary—the force of will which bound together the wounds of a dying Empire. Such force earned her countless titles – some even he may never be privy to – yet they no longer seem so impossible when he looks at the monolith before him. The dead and the dying lay broken, the living and the beaten sink weeping to their knees, yet she _stands_. Staring grimly into the stone face of a dragon, a shard of crystal clutched to her chest, she mouths words to the dragon-once-man that Baurus always suspected lay between them.

Love between a Champion and her Emperor.

With those words upon her lips, her head finally bows. There are no tears. Only woundedness. Only desolate reverie. The monolith cracks before his eyes, and Baurus once again sees Atia as she ever was—ebon-haired and guarded, a woman of deep heart and steeled exterior. Looking at her, he remembers a girl glaring in the darkness of a dungeon; the image flickers briefly now, over a woman with hollows beneath her eyes. He thinks they might have always been there, those weary bruises, lying in wait beneath the rage. Perhaps that was what had driven her this far. Perhaps they had mistaken wrath for resolve.

Perhaps that was the cruelest thing they had ever done to her.

The guilt strikes him then. He failed her, he realizes. They have all failed her. Baurus is not a man of empty promises, and he had promised to keep Martin Septim safe—to not fail this fledgling Emperor at the last and watch him die, as his father had died. He knows in his heart that this must be as the Gods have planned, that there is nothing he could have done, but the sacrifices burn. Baurus burns. What good is a Blade who cannot prevent the death of two Emperors? What good is the Order when a dynasty severs on their watch? No matter what comes next, this marks the end to an era, and people like Baurus, like Atia, are left with the remains. But how can they rebuild with ashes? How can they stand atop the rubble?

How does he tell her how sorry he is?

She breaks the frozen moment when she looks at him. The hollows beneath her eyes seem all-consuming, swallowing the color of her irises until marbled jadeite goes black. Baurus has seen that look before on broken men—soldiers who have witnessed too much of the horrors of war. His guilt then marries worry. If Atia has reached the cliffs, there will be no talking her back from the edge. Not even if he wants; and Gods know, he wants. More than the anxiety he feels for her, however, is the uncertainty of what she will now do. The Blade in him tenses, a selfish motivation raising him off his knees. He will do whatever he can to help her, but not even Jauffre has ever known the full extent of Atia’s power, or whence it comes. Should she loose her fury upon the land, they must be ready for the strike. She herself knows this.

The mourning in her eyes tells him so.

He swallows. “Atia…”

“Baurus,” she allows, her tone measured.

_Well. They understand each other, then._

Shifting as easily as the starry Thief she was born under, Atia pulls the broken pieces inward, hiding the edges from prying eyes. Baurus stands to her right as both Chancellor Ocato and Grandmaster Jauffre approach. They will have questions. She might have answers. But for all their praising exclamations and gentle platitudes, they will not hold her. Baurus knows this in his bones. She will run into hiding, though for how long he cannot guess. She will take up her grief and the ashes of her anger, and she will burrow somewhere until the time feels like healing enough.

Baurus prays to the Nine that time will be enough.


End file.
